


run rabbit run

by riseuplogan (WonderAvian)



Category: Cyndago - Fandom, markiplier - Fandom
Genre: Blood, Gen, Horror, Implied Character Death, Violence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-07
Updated: 2020-05-07
Packaged: 2021-03-03 00:40:54
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 673
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24056110
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/WonderAvian/pseuds/riseuplogan
Summary: The Authost never loses.
Comments: 2
Kudos: 10





	run rabbit run

The Host isn’t the Host right now. It’s the Author who is stalking Dark through the many twisting hallways of the office, bandages absent and old worn coat open, blood covered bat trailing behind him as he chitters and laughs.

The void, for some reason, won’t open to him, so Dark has been forced to resort to running like a mere mortal. Dark doesn’t get out of breath. He doesn’t. It’s something that just shouldn’t be possible.

And yet, his patchwork mess of a body is screaming at him to rest. He decides, quickly, that he doesn’t like how exhaustion feels.

He comes to an intersection and ducks around and behind the corner, slumping weakly against the wall in relief. He allows himself a moment to breathe.

Footsteps echo down the hallway, growing louder with each passing second.

The sound is different than what he’s used to; both the Author and the Host typically moved in absolute silence. The Author must be having difficulty adjusting to the loss of one of his senses.

Dark knows, however, that the Host has excellent hearing. He’s willing to bet that that hasn’t changed.

Maybe he can use the Author’s heightened senses to his advantage.

Dark sweeps his hand blindly around him, not failing to note the irony in the movement, and eventually lands upon something solid and movable.

Dark risks looking away from the hallway to see what he’s holding.

To his exasperation, he discovers its one of Wilford’s guns. Should he get out of this alive, he’s going to have another rather frustrating talk with his old friend about leaving weapons out in the open where anyone can find them.

Dark checks the chamber, and lets out an inaudible huff of disappointment when he finds it empty.

 _Figures,_ Dark thinks wryly, _that this would be just my luck._ The thought is accompanied by an annoyed flick of the hair.

Straightening up, Dark turns and throws the gun through the intersection with all his might. He smiles in triumph as he hears the nearing footsteps falter in response to the sudden sound of the gun clattering against and skidding across the tile floor.

Dark waits with bated breath.

Slowly, the looming, unnervingly slim figure of the Author in the Host’s body makes its way into Dark’s line of sight. The Author twists his head from side to side and stills, tilting slightly just to listen.

The only sound is the steady _drip, drip,_ dripping of blood onto the office floor. Had Dark a working heart, it would be beating a mile a minute in his ears.

The Author turns on the spot, his limbs seeming to jitter and shake. He turns and starts walking in the direction in which Dark threw the gun, and it’s only then Dark dares to move again.

Using the wall as support, he manages to shakily push himself up. He shakes his head bitterly, mad at the situation he’s in but mainly mad at himself for being so weak. So powerless. He hates it so much.

Something hits the small of his back. Dark lets out a sharp gasp of pain as he collapses to his hands and knees. He automatically reaches for the ache in something that he will never admit is shock.

“It’s not fair, is it?”

Any chance of a possible retort is stolen from him when there’s a horrible screech of metal being dragged on metal. Dark flinches away, hissing angrily.

A wiry hand shoots out and snatches at him. It grabs a fist-full of his hair and wrenches his head up so he is forced to look his pet project, now turned deadly pursuer in the non-existent eyes.

“You can’t fool me,” the Author crows, and the atmospheric voice of the writer-narrator-manipulator distorts violently with dangerous intent. “I wrote every trick in the book!”

The hand releases his hair and sends him sprawling roughly on the ground. Dark barely has time to scream before the bat is brought down upon his head with a deafening crack.


End file.
